Okay, so, maybe this mission didn't quite go to plan. As Steve Rogers looked over at Clint and Sam struggling against the hordes of attackers, he frowned in frustration, trying to fight his own enemies with a gunshot wound in his abdomen—nothing he hadn't done before, but it was never easy. At least this time he wasn't fighting his best friend. This fight would have been a lot easier with his shield, but he couldn't lament about it now. A fist slammed into the side of his head, and he grunted in pain as he stumbled and his helmet fell to the ground. Nope; this was definitely not going according to plan.

It didn't take too much longer after that for Steve to realize that they were not going to win this fight. There was no way. It wasn't possible. There were just too many of them. How they had so greatly underestimated their opponents' numbers, he had no idea, but regardless, now they were screwed.

"Cap!" the captain turned when he heard Sam call him. "There's too many; what do we do?"

It didn't take more than two seconds for Steve to make a decision, and he knew Sam and Clint wouldn't like it.

"Both of you get out," he ordered, turning to block a knife attack. "Get out now! Go!"

"We're not leaving you, Cap!" Clint refused, ripping his arrow out of the chest of one of his attackers and using it to stab another attacker in the eye. Not for the first time, he scolded himself for not staying retired.

"Yes you are!" Steve snapped. "Go! If you don't, we have no shot! Falcon, take Hawkeye and go!"

"But Steve," Sam started to argue. Steve was having none of it.

"Go!"

Sam hesitated, then knocked out the closest opponent to himself and grabbed the back of Clint's uniform tightly. He unfolded his wings and shot into the air, getting as far away from the battle as he could, even as their attackers shot at them from the ground.

"What are you doing?" Clint demanded over the roar of the wind rushing past them. "We have to go back! At least drag him out, too!"

"I can only carry one of you at a time, Clint!" Sam snapped, looking down at him as his arm—and broken hand—strained to keep hold of him. "We can't go back. Captain's orders."

Clint didn't say another word, his chest aching as Sam flew him back to their, ahem, 'borrowed' Quinjet, finally touching down right beside it. Neither one was in good shape; both were bleeding—Sam rather alarmingly from his leg—and had several broken bones. They had no idea what they were going to do now, but they knew they had to decide quickly; they weren't too far from the site of their defeat, and now, if they were going to help Steve, they had to get out of there. Wordlessly, the two of them walked—or, limped, really—into the jet, and Clint got behind the controls. In minutes, they were in the air.

"So where exactly are we going?" Sam asked after a moment or two of silence.

"Somewhere I will very likely regret going," Clint replied. "But we don't really have a choice, here."

Sam just nodded, looking down at Steve's helmet in his hands. He'd snatched it up right before they took off, intending to toss it back to him, but Steve hadn't turned around. It had some blood on the outside, but a surprising amount of it on the inside as well. The sight made his stomach lurch. He couldn't help but worry about what happened to his friend—he was a super soldier, sure, but he was still human; he had his limits. He just hoped to God that somehow, they'd get him back.

By the time Clint set the jet down, Sam was barely keeping his eyes open, the wound in his leg continuing to bleed. Clint hauled himself up from his seat with a grunt of pain, and when he took a step, he nearly fell, only just catching himself on the chair.

"You okay there?" Sam asked, standing up himself with extreme effort.

"I'm fine," Clint said dismissively. "Let's go."

The master archer walked towards the back of the Quinjet, which had opened up to allow him access to the landing pad. Sam limped along behind him, his vision swimming with each step. When they got out into the open air—Sam immediately recognizing where they were and groaning internally—Clint removed an arrow from his quiver and knocked it, taking shaky aim at the lock on the door in front of him. As always, he found his target, even with his injuries, and the lock exploded. Without a word, the two wounded Avengers—or ex-Avengers, now—strolled unsteadily back into the Avengers tower for the first time in months.

Shortly after crossing the threshold, Sam's wounded leg gave out on him, and Clint reflexively caught him before he could fall—an action that nearly took them both down to the floor. Clint gritted his teeth, his numerous injuries becoming more and more painful as his adrenaline wore off. They'd just entered the living room before Clint couldn't manage it anymore, and he lowered his friend to the floor, a trail of blood being left by both of them.

"I'm gonna grab something for that," he nodded at the bleeding wound in Sam's leg. "Don't move."

"Very funny," Sam forced a chuckle. "Yeah, I was just about to go run a marathon."

"Humor's good," Clint smiled, standing up carefully. "Means you're probably not dying yet."

"Lucky me," Sam's smile was more a grimace than anything else.

Clint didn't respond, instead shuffling over to the bar, trying not to put a whole lot of pressure on his knee, which was throbbing painfully. He grabbed a towel and the strongest vodka he could find, then started making his way back over towards Sam. He froze before he even got back around the bar top when he heard Tony's voice.

"First you break in, and now you're stealing my booze?" Tony Stark had a piece of the Iron Man suit on his hand, and it was aimed right at Clint's chest. "Dick move, Barton."

"You can shoot me later, Tony," Clint shrugged. "Right now...I've got shit to do."

"What happened to you?" Tony's eyes narrowed, noticing how much pain he was in when he moved, his arm only lowering slightly.

"Tony, either help me, or shut up," Clint growled, the blood loss making him irritable. He started making his way back towards Sam, but before he even got half way there, he stopped, leaning against the wall as his vision danced.

"Barton?" concern made its way into Tony's voice, and he quickly started towards the wounded archer, just making it in time to catch him before he fell.

"Alright, there we go, easy, buddy," Tony grumbled, putting Clint's arm around his shoulders and helping him to the couch as the metal on his hand retreated back into his watch.

"No, Tony, let me go," he protested, trying to get up. Tony wouldn't let him.

"Clint, you're falling over," Tony snapped. "Give me the vodka; I have actual disinfectant, you know. I can't believe you were about to waste perfectly good alcohol on cleaning yourself up."

"Not me," Clint shook his head, his eyes moving in Sam's direction even though he couldn't see him. Tony followed his eyes, and was surprised when he saw the wounded man leaning against the wall, blood pooling under him. For a moment, he didn't speak.

"You know, this is kinda like in the movies, when a bunch of birds fly full force into the windows and kill themselves," he observed finally.

"I knew we shouldn't have come here," Sam breathed.

"Tony?" Clint craned his neck when he heard a familiar and dearly-missed voice. Sure enough, Natasha made her way into the room. "What the hell is going—?"

She broke off when she saw Clint on the couch, and after a moment, she ran to him.

"What happened?" she demanded.

"I'm fine," Clint said dismissively. "Take care of Sam."

"Tony, go," Natasha snapped. Tony hesitated for only another moment before grabbing the towel Clint had taken from the bar and going over to Sam's side, putting pressure on the wound in his outer thigh. Sam let out a grunt of pain, his eyes squeezing shut.

"Oh, did that hurt?" Tony had a wicked gleam in his eyes. "I'm so sorry."

Sam glared at him, but didn't say a word, a spark of guilt in his eyes. Tony glanced back at the door through which the two visitors had entered. It was then that he spotted the helmet that Sam had been carrying on the way in, but that he'd dropped when his leg gave out. Tony frowned when he saw it, and grabbed Sam's hand, putting it on the towel covering his wound, forcing him to keep pressure on it. Then he got to his feet and walked over to the helmet, picking it up. He noticed the blood on it, the crack in it, and, most disturbingly, the blood inside it.

"Where's Rogers?" he demanded after a moment. Natasha looked over at him, and when she saw Steve's helmet in his hands, her blood ran cold. Neither man answered him, so he looked up at them.

"This is not a trick question," he snapped irritably. "Where is Rogers? What happened?"

"He's gone," Sam spoke up, his voice dull.

"The hell do you mean, 'gone?'" Natasha jumped in, looking down at Clint almost accusingly.

"We were surrounded," Sam went on. "Our intel said there should have been a couple dozen guys there. It was more like a couple hundred. We had no idea what we were walking into. We were taking a beating—obviously—and Steve..."

"Cap told us to run," Clint finished when Sam trailed off. "So we ran."

"And you just left him there?" Tony gawked.

"You, of all people, have no room to talk about leaving your friends when they need you," Sam snapped weakly. "You, of all people, have no room to talk about leaving him defenseless."

"Sam," Clint warned him to back off with just one syllable.

"I didn't take Cap's shield," Tony shot back at the wounded ex-soldier. "He left it behind. Now, why did you come here, of all places?"

"We were relatively close," Clint shrugged painfully. "Hell of a lot closer than Africa. And we weren't gonna make it back to Africa."

"And we...we need your help," Sam admitted grudgingly. "There's no one else."

"What about all your buddies?" Tony couldn't help but sound a little bitter. Natasha felt a tiny smirk when she also recognized a bit of jealousy. "Like, ah...what about that ant guy?"

"Visiting his daughter on the DL," Clint replied, his headache starting to lessen just slightly now that he wasn't trying to move so much.

"Barnes?"

"On ice."

"Wanda?"

"She's ah...visiting Vision on the DL," Clint smirked.

"What?" Tony blinked.

"She thinks we don't know," the wounded archer shrugged. Tony gawked at him.

"Everybody knows," Sam added.

"Okay, well...what about your friend the crazy cat lady?" Tony tried one more time.

"He's running a nation, Tony," Sam rolled his eyes. "It's not like he can just give his responsibilities over to his girlfriend like somebody I know."

"Alright, that's it," Tony sighed. "Everybody up. We're leaving."

"Tony, you can't just throw them out," Natasha protested.

"I'm not throwing them out," Tony shook his head, reaching down and pulling Sam to his feet, allowing him to lean on him for support. "I'm driving."

Natasha smiled slightly, then helped Clint to his feet, following Tony out to the Quinjet. The two Avengers gently put their former colleagues down in the back of the jet, and Natasha volunteered to keep an eye on them, allowing Tony to slide into the pilot's seat. In a couple minutes, they were in the air.

Thanks so much for reading, everybody! Don't forget to favorite, follow, and/or comment. I hope you enjoyed! Not so sure if I want to continue this one, so your feedback is appreciated.